


Complex Games

by Tedronai



Series: Complex Games [1]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 23:59:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moridin agrees to teach Taim how to play <i>sha'rah</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complex Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eirenne Saijima (ladypoetess)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypoetess/gifts).



> This is what happens when you combine a mildly sleep-deprived writer with a sudden attack of Moridin feels and too much time at the airport in Vienna.
> 
> Massively updated 19.6.2016; the end was rewritten entirely, the rating went up a notch and I have basically no excuse.

Taim’s ears were still ringing when he stepped through the gateway after Moridin. The agony and ecstasy of being in the Great Lord’s presence was unlike anything he had experienced before. Even the embarrassment of having the whole ordeal witnessed by Moridin was a fleeting thing, insignificant in comparison. The Forsaken had not said a word and his demeanour was not mocking, but then again, it was never easy to tell what the Nae’blis was truly thinking.

The room they emerged into was of stark black stone, decorated with dark red tapestries which didn’t make it look any less cold or more welcoming. The fire in the fireplace radiated no warmth. Two chairs and a small table between them were the only furniture, and on the table there was a game board, similar to that of the game called stones, but not quite. Taim’s gaze must have lingered on the game board because then the Forsaken spoke.

“It’s called _sha’rah_ ,” Moridin said. “A more complex game from a more civilised Age.”

Detecting something almost wistful in the other man’s voice, Taim glanced from the board to Moridin and back. “Would you teach me?” he asked, affecting only mild curiosity.

Moridin gave him a long, veiled look. “Perhaps,” he said eventually. “But not now.” He turned away as if he had already dismissed Taim from his mind. “Return to your duties. I will summon you.”

* * *

It took but a few days before Taim was summoned. The messenger was most disturbing; it looked human enough, like an impossibly handsome young man, except for the eyes that weren’t simply dead but looked as if they had never held life. It didn’t speak, but Taim knew the summons was to be obeyed immediately, and so he dropped the reports he was reading, grabbed his coat and followed the creature.

He was taken to the same room he remembered from his previous visit to Moridin’s Blight Fortress, though it felt subtly different; he couldn’t remember precisely enough to be sure but he thought the tapestries were different. That couldn’t be true, though, as he doubted the Nae’blis spent his time redecorating his lair. What a ridiculous idea.

Moridin himself was seated in one of the chairs by the fireplace and didn’t get up or turn to look when Taim entered. He simply made a minuscule nod towards the other chair. “Please, take a seat.”

Taim obeyed, and the not-exactly-human messenger served wine. The _sha’rah_ board was all set up to begin. Moridin paid it no mind, however. Instead he finally looked at Taim, blue eyes at once distant and intense. “Tell me, Mazrim, why do you wish to learn this game?”

Taim almost flinched at the casual use of his name. “Nobody calls me that,” he said flatly.

“I believe I just did,” Moridin observed, swirling the wine in his glass. Though nothing showed on his face, Taim had the feeling that he was amused. “You have a complaint?”

Taim swallowed a sharp retort, in the name of self-preservation. The Nae’blis was the one person in the world who could call him anything he bloody well wished and there wasn’t a thing Taim could do about it. He exhaled slowly. “None, Great Master,” he replied, keeping his voice carefully bland.

Perhaps a bit too bland, even. “Oh, but you do,” Moridin said, and now there was no mistaking the amused glint in his eyes. “You resent me for using your given name. Very well,” he added, as if on a whim, though Taim could have sworn the Forsaken did little that was not carefully premeditated. “I shall consider not using it again.”

“Much appreciated, Great Master,” Taim muttered. He couldn’t begin to guess what might prompt the Forsaken to make such a gesture, and he couldn’t afford to read too much into it. He was aware that _sha’rah_ was not the only game being played this evening, even if he was far from sure what the other games might be about, precisely. The Forsaken were constantly playing games, games within games, and Taim held no illusions of knowing any of their true motives.

“And now,” Moridin went on, “you will answer my question.”

It took a moment of mental scrambling to recall the original question. “I enjoy complex games,” Taim replied.

That brought a smile to Moridin’s lips. “You enjoy complex games,” he repeated. “Very well, then. Let us begin.”

 

The game went on for most of the night. Not because Moridin couldn’t have ended it sooner — there were several occasions that Taim noticed when Moridin could have and should have won, and he suspected he probably missed more such moments — but because he kept backing off when he got close to defeating Taim. Taim was not sure why, beyond that it was more educative than if the Forsaken had simply crushed him in a matter of minutes, and some of those times Moridin even took a moment to explain how Taim could have countered the attack if he’d gone ahead with it. Still, Taim didn’t like the feeling that he was being toyed with. He kept a tight leash on his temper, however, and kept playing. It might have been nothing but his imagination — _might_ have — but he thought he saw a glint of approval in the other man’s eyes at such moments. Though why Moridin would care either way, he couldn’t begin to guess.

Eventually Moridin decreed the lesson over and ended the game with but a few decisive moves. Taim carefully kept the annoyance from his voice when he spoke. “Impressive.”  
Moridin merely gave him a cursory nod in return. “I will summon you again.”

* * *

The next time Taim was summoned he was in his bath. Nonetheless, the eerie messenger creature — _zomara_ , Moridin had called them — seemed to expect an immediate response, and so Taim got dressed and followed. Again he was led to the same room, where the Forsaken was waiting. Moridin glanced up at him, taking in the still-damp hair and the scent of soap still clinging to him. “Did I interrupt something?” the Forsaken asked.

“Not at all,” Taim replied smoothly, accepting the glass of wine offered by the _zomara_.

Moridin didn’t call him out on the obvious lie; he merely smiled Taim had the feeling that the Forsaken knew perfectly well that it was never meant to be taken at face value.

 

That evening Moridin defeated him in a half score quick, aggressive matches, and Taim enjoyed each defeat a thousand times more than the prolonged practice run of the previous time.

* * *

The third time, Taim was sleeping when the _zomara_ appeared. Already used to the procedure, he got up without a word and got dressed to follow. He didn’t have the chance to check the time — he had no clock in his bedroom — and the sky outside the windows told precious little. He thought he had slept for an hour or two, but he couldn’t be sure. He wondered briefly if the Forsaken had learnt to go without sleep altogether — he didn’t require a lot of sleep himself, not since he had started channelling, but some anyway. And tonight he was apparently not going to get it.

 

Moridin didn’t look as if he had slept — but of course he wouldn’t. Again he gestured for Taim to take a seat. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” he said, not sounding as if he was actually interested.

“Nothing of consequence,” Taim replied in kind. That earned him a smile, and he couldn’t tell if it was of the amused sort or something else entirely.

 

Wine was served again, and then Moridin proceeded to lead Taim through a game of _sha’rah_ that resembled an elaborate dance. The Forsaken didn’t toy with him this time, but neither did he simply blitz through the game to a victory - although he undoubtedly could have. Instead he gave Taim space to manoeuvre and form strategies to approach the situations that arose. Dawn was already lighting up the horizon when Moridin finally claimed victory, in a less straight-forward manner than Taim would have expected. It was not until later that day, in the middle of arguing with Logain, that he realised that he had actually manoeuvred the Forsaken into a place where victory was no longer possible by more obvious means.

* * *

The games continued. Moridin would summon Taim whenever he liked; sometimes there might be almost a week between games, and sometimes they would play two or three nights in a row. Taim never won; it would take more time than that to reach the level of mastery over the game that Moridin had acquired over his centuries of life. But he thought — in fact, he was increasingly certain — that the Nae’blis enjoyed the games. The satisfied glint in the blue eyes was especially evident whenever Taim made a move that surprised him.

 

Of course, the games weren’t always such a relaxed affair. Sometimes the Forsaken was in a foul mood and the game was played in tense, brooding silence. Treading lightly was not in Taim’s nature, but he learnt to make himself all but invisible to avoid the storm. And he thought, on those days, the games were a welcome distraction for the other man. And sometimes, Moridin would talk. Never of the Great Lord’s plans or what the other Forsaken were up to, or — Light forbid — anything personal, just things that on the surface seemed largely inconsequential but never shallow. A lot of the time Taim couldn’t completely follow the track the other man’s thoughts travelled, but he kept up well enough to participate in the conversation when a conversation it was, and he listened with unfeigned interest when the Forsaken was just talking without expecting a response.

 

And once, Moridin called him _Barid_. The Forsaken was obviously distracted that night, irritated and barely paying attention to the game. He defeated Taim twice with an almost disdainful air, but Taim had the feeling that he wasn’t the cause of his sour mood. Indeed, the Nae’blis barely appeared to see Taim, instead frowning at something Taim couldn’t see and flexing his left hand as if it pained him. After the second game he sat in silence for a long time, staring into distance, the saa drifting in a steady stream across his eyes. The visual effect was mildly disconcerting. Taim wondered if the Forsaken had in fact forgotten about his presence and whether he should remind him, but before he could reach a decision, Moridin spoke.

“Tell me, Barid—” He trailed off, looking visibly startled. The unguarded expression lasted only for a few seconds before he schooled his face into expressionlessness, but when he spoke again, his voice held a hint of something, an emotion that Taim couldn’t identify. “Mazrim.”

So much for not using his given name, Taim thought wryly. “Yes, Great Master?”

The Nae’blis simply regarded him for a long moment, blue eyes unreadable. “Nothing.” Then he stood up and turned his back to Taim, staring into the fire.

Interpreting that the game was over for the night, Taim stood as well. “If I may ask…” he began, cautiously. “Who is Barid?”

“That is none of your concern,” Moridin replied in a voice that forbade any further enquiries. “You may leave now.”

That was not the kind of order that one questioned, and so Taim went.

* * *

The next time Taim was summoned, the Forsaken appeared surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?” he asked irritably. “I thought I made it clear you were to wait for summons.” He was not in the room where they usually played _sha’rah_ , but a smaller one with a desk and shelves full of books. Moridin himself was sitting behind the desk, with a massive, ancient-looking leather-bound book before him, and to the side a smaller one in which he was writing something.

Unsure what this turn of events meant, Taim replied, “Your servant came for me.”

Moridin frowned at the _zomara_ , who had reappeared with wine as usual. “It did?” He sounded actually mildly curious. “They’ve never done anything like that before.” Then he closed the old book and looked up at Taim. “I suppose you may as well stay since you’re here. If you’d like.”

The addition caught Taim off guard; what game was the Forsaken playing now? But he was not about to miss the chance to find out. He inclined his head in acknowledgement and accepted the glass of wine offered by the _zomara_. There was no other chair in the room so he remained standing and turned his attention to the books in the shelves. Most of them looked old, and more than half of them had names in the Old Tongue, those that were readable at all. Taim wasn’t fluent in the Old Tongue but he understood some titles here and there, and from what he could gather the selection was nearly as eccentric as its owner.

Moridin kept scribbling notes for a while longer, before closing the small book as well and setting both aside. He stood up and walked over to stand next to Taim. “So many books have been lost,” he said quietly, as if talking to himself. “So much knowledge, in the course of the past three thousand years… Gone forever. It’s… infuriating.”

He did sound angry, Taim realised. Angry and very… _human_ , all of a sudden. He turned to face the Forsaken, and after a moment Moridin turned to face him, too. He was close enough that Taim had to tilt his head slightly to look at him, close enough that Taim could catch the faint scent of a perfume, strange but not unpleasant. Close enough to touch. Partly out of curiosity, just to see whether he could get away with it, Taim raised a hand and slowly, avoiding sudden movements, placed it on Moridin’s shoulder. Moridin glanced at it as though it was a matter of academic interest.

“Have you any idea where you’re going with this?” the Nae’blis asked. He didn’t sound disapproving, just mildly curious.

Taim shrugged. “What if I do?” He wasn’t at all certain that he did, but he was good at improvising, he’d figure something out.

A sharp smile curved the corners of Moridin’s lips. “If that was your way of asking consent, you have it.”

Well, that was good to know, Taim supposed. And then, before he could think about it long enough to realise that it was probably a bad idea, he leaned in to kiss the other man. For one heart-stoppingly awkward moment Moridin simply stood there like a statue, passive and unresponsive — and then he returned the kiss, and just like that he was in charge. He pushed Taim against the bookshelf, roughly enough that Taim was almost surprised no books came falling down on their heads. This, Taim thought, a bit stunned, was more like he’d expected. What was unexpected, however—

“Oh.” Moridin withdrew slightly, just enough that he could look at Taim, eyebrows raised. “You actually like being pinned against a wall, do you?” He didn’t seem to expect an answer, and Taim was not going to give one, though he supposed the way his face heated up was answer enough. Moridin didn’t quite smile, but his voice held a trace of amusement when he continued, “I didn’t expect that of you, Mazrim.”

The mockery, the use of his name—

Something snapped. Taim shoved the Forsaken back, forcefully enough to make him stumble against the desk. For a few seconds they stared at each other, breathing hard, on the verge of violence. Then Moridin laughed. It took Taim a moment to realise that the laughter was closer to self-deprecating than mocking. Moridin shook his head and moved books and papers out of the way before sitting on the edge of the desk.

“That was not meant to be insulting,” Moridin said wryly. He rubbed his left wrist with a faint grimace, but his attention remained on Taim. When he spoke again, his voice held a dangerous edge. “This is an unusual situation so I will let it go this once, but do not think you can get away with assaulting me again.”

Taim nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Forgive me, Nae’blis.”

“Now,” Moridin said in a low, commanding voice, “come here.”

Taim approached cautiously. The Forsaken was still sitting on the desk and didn’t move until Taim was right in front of him. Then he reached out to grasp the front of Taim’s coat and pull him in for a kiss, a real one this time. Taim felt his own inexperience keenly — though Moridin was not the first person he’d ever kissed, the last time might as well have been in another life entirely — but the Nae’blis gave him no time to wallow in his feelings of inadequacy.

Moridin’s hands were undoing the buttons of his coat, or trying to; after a moment he gave a frustrated snarl and then something like a blade ripped through the cloth. True Power, it had to be, because no _saidin_ had been channelled. Taim shrugged out of the remnants of the coat, oddly self-conscious though he was still wearing a shirt. Moridin wrapped his legs around Taim, and with one hand the Forsaken grasped a fistful of hair at the back of Taim’s head, gripping hard enough to hurt. Taim tried to stifle a moan as his body responded. As though of their own accord, his arms went around Moridin and he thrust his hips against the Forsaken, desperate for friction. He might have been embarrassed if not for the fact that Moridin’s movements were getting equally frantic; the Forsaken was just as lost to the sensation as Taim, his eyes half closed and lips parted as he rocked against Taim. A bottle of ink fell off the desk, black ink spilling to the floor at Taim’s feet. Moridin gasped, clenching his fist, still tangled in Taim’s hair, his nails scraping the scalp at the back of Taim’s head. Taim groaned, trying to exert some control over his body — surely this wasn’t how it was supposed to go — but it was too late, there was no stopping it; with a final thrust he finished in his breeches. Clinging to him as though drowning, or maybe trying to strangle something, Moridin followed soon after.

For one deeply surreal moment Taim leaned on the desk, trying to catch his breath, while Moridin slumped against him, equally wrung out. Then the reality of what had just happened began to slowly sink in. Painfully aware of the wetness around his crotch, Taim thought about gathering the shreds of his dignity — and maybe his coat — and making a graceful exit before the Nae’blis recovered. The only thing that kept him from wanting to die of embarrassment was the fact that Moridin himself hadn’t fared any better.

“Well,” Moridin said, raising his head and looking at Taim. “That’s one way to do it.” His mouth twisted in a slight grimace. “Messy. I did not miss having to deal with things like this.”

Taim muttered something sufficiently noncommittal as he detached himself from the Nae’blis and withdrew to a safe distance. When it seemed that Moridin wasn’t going to continue, he spoke up hesitantly. “I take it that was all..?”

The look Moridin gave him was wry enough to make him regret he’d ever said anything. “Evidently,” the Forsaken said. Then he took pity on the younger man and waved his hand in dismissal. “Go. We both need to get cleaned up.” As Taim turned to go, he added, “I’ll summon you again.”

Taim froze. “For _sha’rah_?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casual. “Or—?” _Or whatever this was._ He couldn’t exactly say that out loud, though. Or could he? If there was an etiquette for what they’d just done, nobody had ever told him what it entailed. What an absurd thing to be thinking about.

“What would you prefer?” Moridin asked. When Taim didn’t answer immediately, the Nae’blis grimaced again. “Either _sha’rah_ or doing this properly.” He frowned at the fallen bottle of ink before looking at Taim again. “Unless you have objections. This is not part of your, ah, duties, after all.” 

Taim shook his head. “No objections,” he said faintly. Then a gateway appeared, through which he could see his quarters in the Black Tower, and he didn’t wait for a formal dismissal.


End file.
